


throws my breath, tackles my heart

by orphan_account



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Clint Needs a Hug, F/M, First Time, Fluff, Natasha-centric, Protective Natasha
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-07
Updated: 2014-01-25
Packaged: 2018-01-07 19:25:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1123494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Most of SHIELD assumed that Agent Barton and Agent Romanoff were together long before they were actually together.</p><p>Alternatively, six times that Natasha didn't want to kill Clint, and one time she had sex with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [paroxferox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/paroxferox/gifts).



The first time she asks him, it is not without ulterior motive.

 

It is not a _trap_. Clint Barton isn’t a mark, and Natasha Romanoff isn’t a honeypot. (Not anymore. Or only when she deems it necessary to a mission, not because someone told her it was necessary. It’s complicated. She doesn’t fully understand SHIELD yet – they are simultaneously kinder than her previous employers, and not quite as different as she hoped.)

 

It’s not a trap. But it might be a test. She is saddled with him, at least until they’re sure she’s not going to run; for as long as the Director suspects she might be funneling valuable information back to Russia, she is going to have to endure Barton’s eyes on her. So she wants to know more about what kind of eyes they are. Self-defense is an automatic mechanism for her.

 

And in this case, self-defense means being the one to offer first. Some day he will ask if she doesn't, and Natasha intends to make sure the inevitable comes on _her_ terms.

 

The opportunity arises just after their first real mission together. She is still fresh; still raw from the interminable SHIELD interrogations – granted, they weren’t _real_ interrogations as Natasha would understand them, there was a notable absence of pliers involved and a notable presence of coffee when she asked for it, both of which were a pleasant surprise – but they still drained every potentially valuable shred of information about her former employers that they could wrest from her brain. She gave what she knew willingly. That was the choice she made, when she chose to surrender herself. And something she said must have satisfied them, because they declare her to be a probationary SHIELD asset and they send her out with Barton.

 

The mission was a difficult one - probably a test, she thinks. The mark was flighty, easily panicked, and they ended up having to pursue him through unfamiliar streets until Natasha could take him down. The chase was frenetic enough that they are both still flooded with adrenaline, but the kind that is tinged with the thrill of success. This is a proof of concept, that the two of them together have something to offer SHIELD. They go through debriefing – Natasha lets him do most of the talking, but interjects occasionally to offer additional details – and then they are both standing in the hallway together, lingering.

 

Barton smiles at her. (It is a disarming smile. How can someone so exceptionally deadly be so… absurd, sometimes?) She deliberately permits the lines of her body to soften a little, lifts a hand to brush a few stray red strands out of her eyes.

 

“Walk me back?” she asks him. It is an innocuous enough question. The Helicarrier is enormous and Natasha’s bunk is one identical door among… probably hundreds. She has yet to explore the entirety of the massive facility; let him think he is doing her a favor, that she has not already memorized the path back from the bridge to her quarters. But when they get there, she catches hold of his wrist and his eyes simultaneously and lingers in the doorway, inviting.

 

This is the moment where Natasha Romanoff discovers who Clint Barton is, beyond _the man who wouldn’t take the shot_. If he comes to her like he is claiming a debt, then that will be the end of their association: she will mark it repaid and then she will vanish on their next mission, never again to be seen by SHIELD’s eyes. If he comes to her with the same hunger for her body that she has known before, from other hands and eyes, then her body is all that he will receive – and all that he will ever receive. If he comes to her as an equal, as two partners celebrating success together, then she will be satisfied with him.

 

Somehow, she has not considered the possibility of what _actually_ occurs. He looks at her, confused. Needing clarification, confirmation that what she’s asking is what he thinks she’s asking. And when she nods, repeats her offer in entirely unambiguous words, he stumbles awkwardly through some excuse – “oh god, we’re partners, that’s – is this a good idea?”

 

“So we are partners. Does that stop you? Is there a SHIELD policy?”

 

There isn’t. She’s checked.

 

Maybe some glint of something – injured pride, perhaps – showed in her eyes, because he hastens to explain that it’s not a lack of _attraction_. She’s gorgeous. (Of course she’s gorgeous. Natasha has taken pains to make herself desirable. It’s her job.) But Barton declines, because _he doesn’t want things to be weird_. He gently disengages his wrist from her hand and his eyes from her own, and he wishes her a good night before he leaves. And Natasha, who is a professional when it comes to lies and has seen Barton lie often enough to know that he is not, detects no falsehood in it.

 

He is a very strange man, she decides. She’s going to have to stick around, if only to keep observing him until she figures him out.

 

But she doesn’t ask again. Not for years.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good lord, this chapter expanded out of control. Fair warning: the rest of them aren't going to be this long, or quite this involved. I just knew I wanted at least one scene of the two of them on mission, and from there they just wouldn't let me stop until I'd written the whole thing.

Budapest is terrible. Hungary is a terrible country. Everything about the mission is terrible.

 

It should have been a clean and simple job: they have a name, a face, and a list of crimes. It’s an extensive list; Barton stops after the first page because he’s already convinced. “Yeah, okay, this Razkovich guy deserves an arrow in the head,” he growls. Natasha keeps reading, not because she still needs convincing that the man deserves death, but because she’s putting together a psychological profile in her mind.

 

And it’s a good thing that she does, because when the quinjet touches down on Hungarian soil, that’s pretty much _all_ they have. Intel is sparse at best. Their only source has a plan to get them close enough to the target, but it’s a pretty shallow plan: all the source can do is get her into a party that the target will be attending, and she’s expected to handle the rest of the details on her own. Natasha’s worked with less information and worse conditions, but she’s come to expect better from SHIELD intel, and she says so – right as the source leads them straight into an ambush. Because of course he was a goddamn double agent the whole time. Natasha and Clint are forced into an undignified scramble to get away from a solid dozen armed men, because even they won’t take those odds in a close-range ambush. It doesn’t take long to lose their pursuit, but they keep moving for a long while after that because the only other thing to do is report in, and neither of them wants to.

 

Eventually they grab a room in a hotel that looks seedy but not too seedy, because the sun has vanished over the horizon and neither of them want to run into the enemy again on dark streets in an unfamiliar city. The room they rent has only one bed and no window, but it has hot water and that’s really all Natasha needs. As soon as the door is securely closed and locked behind them, she starts unzipping out of her uniform, glad that blood doesn’t show up well on the black or they’d have had a lot more trouble getting this room. And Clint, to her surprise, turns and faces away from her.

 

She has no time for the embarrassment of men. If they are ashamed to look at her, it is inevitably because they feel that she should be ashamed to be seen. But this is her body, _hers_ to give or take as she pleases, and God knows she has paid enough for the rights to it. If they remain partners, someday Clint will know all the small truths about it – the way it does not age or scar properly, so she has no physical evidence after the memories are gone, the way it will never bring life and how glad she is for that small mercy. But for now she is too tired to do more than inhabit it.

 

She shrugs the rest of the way out of the catsuit and disinfects the wounds beneath in the bathroom mirror, in nothing but her underclothes. When she’s done, Clint mutely exchanges places with her.

 

After a moment’s hesitation, in which she deems the bloody uniform no longer salvageable, she calls out “Can I borrow a shirt?”

 

After an equal hesitation, he calls back an affirmative.

 

The clean T-shirt in his bag is big and shapeless on her, but not quite so much as she’d thought it might be. It is also purple, and it smells of the same SHIELD-issue detergent as the uniforms. She realizes that the smell probably means _home_ to Clint, and wonders if it will be the same for her someday. Most likely not. Natasha Romanoff has never been one for either domesticity or sentiment. With Clint’s eyes safely on the bathroom mirror, she lets herself collapse onto the bed, curling on her side and closing her eyes. The pad of footsteps and the creak of the mattress on the other side let her know when Clint joins her.

 

She keeps her eyes closed until she feels the blanket drawn up, and then they snap open to see Clint still in his uniform, curling up facing her and settling the covers around both of them. With a tiny pang, she realizes she stole the shirt _he_ was planning to change into. It is not much of a pang, because he still could have opted for just boxers more easily than she could have, but for some reason Clint’s not big on baring skin around her. She’s never even seen him with his shirt off.

 

Maybe he’s got some scars he’s not ready for her to see.

 

She doesn’t realize that the room was cold until the reflected body heat under the covers warms her bare limbs, and she shivers reflexively. He looks at her questioningly, but she deflects the unanswered question with a glance. Adrenaline’s finally wearing off. For both of them, she guesses, given the set of his shoulders. “We can still salvage this,” she says out loud.

 

“How?” And now Clint is nothing but skepticism. “Our only way to the target is kinda fucked.”

 

“We’ve still got an invite to the party. I still have the dress.”

 

“He’s going to know our faces now, thanks to our double-crossing pal. He’ll know it’s us.”

 

She shrugs. “And he obviously paid off a lot of people to try to have us killed once. So let’s work with that.”

 

Clint groans and rubs a hand across his face, but when he speaks again the only objection he voices is “Will I have to wear a tux?”

 

He looks good in the tux.

 

They look good _together_. She floats across the dance floor in heels and a long burgundy gown, one hand resting lightly on his arm. Clint looks profoundly uncomfortable, but he channels it into looking cool and unapproachable instead, which means that mercifully he doesn’t have to talk to anyone except her. Clint has literally no idea how to dance, ballroom or otherwise, which would be a problem since he’s technically supposed to be leading. But mercifully he catches on quickly, and moves in the direction that Natasha guides him.

 

“Spotted our target,” she leans in close to murmur in Clint’s ear, her eyes locked on a tall man across the room. “We need to split up so you can get in position and I can get Razkovich.”

 

“What do you suggest?”

 

“Staging a lover’s spat,” she says, and then before Clint can respond she draws back with an expression of rage and disgust and slaps him hard. His look of shock is exceptionably believable, on account of being completely honest.

 

“You _bastard!_ ” she practically screams as he’s still sputtering incoherently. “Her? Of all people, _her_?” Clint looks literally the most baffled she’s ever seen him, and it’s perfect. She makes a noise of utter disgust, turns on her heel, and storms off towards the restrooms to initiate phase two of the plan.

 

Once she's checked the restroom thoroughly and determined to her satisfaction that she's alone in it (for now) she puts in her earpiece and switches it on. "Hawkeye?"

 

"You  _slapped_  me!" His voice is an immediate burst of indignation in her ear.

 

"I did warn you."

 

"Yeah, that you were going to stage a fight! I didn't think you were going to  _actually slap_ me!"

 

"Then you don't know me very well. I don't see how that's my problem."

 

He huffs, still affronted, but he must not have a snarky response to that off the top of his head because the next thing he says to her is "So what now?"

 

"Now you get in position and wait. We've just put on an obviously staged performance to split us up; he knows that I'm going to try to draw him away, and since he wants to draw  _me_  away he's going to let it happen."

 

"Okay. Now explain to me the part where we stop playing into his hands."

 

She doesn’t answer him.

 

"...that part's gonna happen, right?"

 

"Not... as such. It's a risky play. He's already caught us off-guard once; we're playing up the rookie team angle, sticking as close as possible to the original mission parameters like we’re afraid to go off script. Let him think he's dealing with a lower caliber of agent until he makes a mistake you can put an arrow in."

 

She can practically hear him mulling it over. "Tell me this will work, Widow."

 

"It'll work," she answers without hesitation. She thinks back to the list of crimes, the psych profile: Razkovich is arrogant, the kind of man who likes to think himself a puppetmaster pulling all the strings, unaware that his schemes are neither especially creative nor mentally challenging. "I wouldn't put myself in his hands if I didn't think I could break his arm."

 

"Okay. I'll be where you need me."

 

She stares at her reflection in the mirror a moment longer, and then strides back out into the party proper, composed but not  _perfectly_  composed. Playing the rookie agent playing the wounded lover. Masks upon masks.

 

Razkovich is waiting for her, as expected. If he knew she was  _the_  Widow, not just some SHIELD upstart borrowing the name, he wouldn't let her get this close to him - and that is when she knows for sure that this will work. If he was a wise man, he'd have vanished already. If he was a cautious man, he would have waited for her to approach him... but he wants this. He wants to lure her somewhere personally, so he can watch her die and have the satisfaction of being the last person to touch her. They smile at one another and exchange some polite conversation, irrelevant meaningless words: on the surface, to the partygoers around them, he is gallantly helping a now-solo young lady recover her dignity, and she is all too willing to be distracted. Behind his eyes, he knows she is an agent, and thinks that knowledge gives him the upper hand. The words are just steps in the dance, and he is leading where she guides him.

 

Not even an hour has passed before he invites her back to his hotel room, and she lets some satisfaction show in her eyes: mask one slips a little, showing a glimpse of mask two, the rookie agent relieved that he's an easy mark. His smile is predatory and she can't wait for it to be wiped from existence. No point dragging this out when they are both eager to cut to the chase. As the two of them stroll out the door together and out into the cool evening streets, his eyes flicker up to a rooftop and hers follow his, both picking out a human silhouette perched there in the ideal vantage point.

 

He thinks it's his sniper. She's certain it's hers.

 

An exuberant gesture in their conversation turns into one of his hands uplifted, two fingers in the air: an obvious signal to the man on the rooftop. Razkovich turns and looks at her, and is momentarily surprised to see her head fail to implode. She smiles and mockingly repeats the gesture, and Hawkeye obligingly, flawlessly, puts an arrow in his trachea.

 

Razkovich's goon squad of armed thugs are more loyal than she thought, because a moment later they're all practically on top of her. If she were a hired goon, she wouldn't run out into a sniper's sights for a boss who's obviously now dead, but that's why they pay her for her brain instead of her muscle. But the difference between this and yesterday's ambush is that 1) Hawkeye is at a distance, not in the midst of the fray, and 2) she's ready for them. An arrow drops the first thug before he even reaches her, and in the heartbeat's span of time that gives her, she's pulled her Widow's Bites out of  _you don't have the security clearance to know where_  and put them on. Three more men fall in quick succession - onetwothree - to her swift darting strikes, and she uses the momentum from the third to swing around and plant both feet into the chest of a fourth. The heels must be sharp, because he howls as she takes him down, but they also slow down her recovery just a fraction, and that's enough for the fifth guy to get his arm around her throat. She tenses to snap her body like a whip, to make him pay for getting in close enough to grapple a live wire...

 

“Nat, _don’t move!_ ” His voice is sharp as a whip crack, even through the ear piece, and Natasha freezes. An instant later there is a rush of displaced air far too close to her ear, a _thunk,_ and a sigh of breath. The arm around her throat loosens its grip. The man sinks to his knees, and the arrow shaft sticking out of his eye socket is close enough to brush her shoulder on the way down.

 

The dead man’s eye couldn’t have been more than three inches from her own when Hawkeye made the shot, and he’s on a rooftop at the end of the street, with only the yellow haze of a street light to discern his target. The survivors scatter, not quite _that_ loyal to their deceased employer.

 

Two days later, they will be back at SHIELD, debriefing.

 

Two weeks later, she will tell him he was lucky that he didn’t finish the job he failed to do when he first encountered her in Russia, and he’ll just keep repeating _I don’t miss, Tasha, you don’t get it, **I don’t miss**_ **.**

 

In hindsight, it will become a joke between them. She will remember the double agent, the frenetic fights in the alleyways of an unfamiliar city, outnumbered and outgunned the whole time, and the feel of an arrow passing far too close to her for comfort. He will remember the party, the ridiculous dance, and above all the absolute certainty that he would never, ever harm her.

 

She lets him call her Nat, or Tasha. She claims it’s because fewer syllables are better over the comms. He smiles and says nothing.


End file.
